Reaching the Cross Roads
by Wyntir Rose
Summary: Smokescreen thought he could handle the world of Special Ops, after all, it's not that different from what he used to do. But when thins start getting a little too close to the past, Jazz has to help him make a decision about his future


Title: Reaching the Crossroads  
Rating: T  
Series: G1 (Grifters and Marks/A Thin Line Between)  
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Smokescreen, Jazz, Mirage

Summary: Smokescreen thought he could handle the world of Special Ops, after all, it's not that different from what he used to do. But when thins start getting a little too close to the past, Jazz has to help him make a decision about his future.

Warnings: Drunken mechs and maybe a little slash between the lines?

_Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work._

Author's Notes: This is a sequel to Divided Loyalties (.net/s/4785930/1/Divided_Loyalties). Special thanks to BitterEloquence for offering advice on this fic.

* * *

Jazz slipped into the bar managing to be both inconspicuous and obvious at the same time. It was a feat that only Jazz seemed capable of. It didn't take him long to spot the burgundy and blue mech sitting in a shadowy booth at the back of the bar. Though perhaps hunched would be the better descriptor. Smokescreen leaned heavily over a half empty cube. Another full one sat by his elbow and three empties were scattered across the table. It was quite obvious that the con mech was rapidly heading toward oblivion at best, and energon poisoning at worst. His normally silent doors were flicking and bobbing slightly, as if in response to a silent conversation before finally coming to rest in a droop against his back.

The black and white saboteur ordered a cube of mid-grade before gliding over to where Smokescreen was sitting. Without announcing himself or even asking for permission, he slid into the chair opposite and cocked his head slightly as he looked at his teammate.

"Hey there Smokes. So, you wanna tell me what's eatin' you or do I gotta guess?"

Smokescreen looked up and dimmed his optics in a blink. He had obviously completely missed Jazz's approach and was trying to figure out how he had. It was also obvious that his processor was so buzzed by the high grade that he wasn't coming up with any kind of answer.

"Nothin's wrong," he finally said, looking back down into his cube.

Anyone else would take the conversation as over, but Jazz wasn't about to be put off. Not when he knew full well what the problem was.

"Okay, so guess it is," Jazz replied, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his mid-grade. "So, let's see ... how 'bout ya give me three guesses and th' first two don't count, hrm?"

Smokescreen looked up at Jazz, confusion written all over his face and in his doors, twitching sharply behind him.

"I'm gonna guess that this last job hit a bit too close t' home. Am I close t' th' mark, Smokey?"

Smokescreens mouth opened and shut as if he was trying to form words that wouldn't come. But his doors said everything he couldn't. In one fluid motion they dipped and then fell, almost as if they were wilting. Or trying to hide under Smokescreen's roof. In verbose silence, he looked back down into his cube.

"Right, okay," Jazz said softly. "So is it this job in particular? Or all of 'em combined?

"... go away, Jazz ..." Smokescreen never looked up as he spoke.

"Not 'till you tell me what's wrong."

Smokescreen tossed back the rest of his cube and grabbed the next one, downing half of it in one large swig.

"An' yer not gonna avoid th' matter by passin' out on me, either." Jazz reached out, and before the intoxicated con-mech could stop him, he grabbed the cube.

"Hey! Give that back!" Smokescreen demanded, reaching out for, and completely missing, the cube. "You have no right, Jazz. I'm off duty! What I do on my time is my business and you have no right!"

"I'm not yer boss here, Smokey. I'm yer friend, and y've got me worried 'bout you." He put the cube back down on the table and fixed Smokescreen with a concerned look. "I've know you fer long enough t' know when somethin's eatin' at ya. I'm offerin' a friendly ear. Totally off th' record."

"Off the record?" Smokescreen looked up at Jazz warily then snorted. "Nope. Not buyin'. Peddle it someplace else."

"That's fine. I ain't askin' ya t' buy." Jazz took a small sip of his mid-grade. "An' I kin wait till yer ready t' talk."

Smokescreen looked back at Jazz sullenly before a small cunning twinkle appeared in his optics. "All right, Jazz. Fine. You won't let me drink and you won't leave until I tell you what's wrong. Right? Fine, gimme my cube back an' I'll talk."

Jazz snorted. "I may've been sparked at night, Smokey, but it wasn't last night. I give you yer cube and you tell me there ain't nothin' wrong. I know this game an' I know how it's fixed, so no deal."

Smokescreen's optics narrowed dangerously. For a moment it was almost as if they darkened to purple-red before Smokescreen shook his head angrily and stood. "Fine, Jazz. It's not this this is th' only bar in Iacon."

He threw several credits down on the table - it was far more than the high grade was worth and far more than an Autobot should reasonably have in his possession - before stalking out of the bar on unsteady legs.

Jazz sighed softly, paid for his own cube, and followed Smokescreen out. As soon as they were out the door, he sidled up beside the con-mech and slipped one arm around his waist.

"Here, Smokes, lemme help ya out before you fall on those wings o' yers."

Smokescreen flinched and pulled away sharply.

"I don't need your help, Jazz. I don't need it and I don't want it," Smokescreen spat. "And I won't be your Mirage substitute either, so go away!"

Jazz pulled away slightly but didn't leave. He knew full well what Smokescreen was doing - few mechs were quite as skilled as pushing buttons as he was - but the saboteur wasn't about to let a few well placed verbal jabs stop him from keeping an eye on his friend and subordinate.

"Yeah, not happening, Smokes. So how's about you stop fightin' me and we go find someplace where you kin get all that high grade out o' yer system?"

Smokescreen didn't reply. Instead he continued toward the next bar on the strip, slowly weaving his way down the alley to the front door. Jazz followed him until they reached an area where the lights were darkened, a small circle of shadows that no one else would have even looked twice at. But for Jazz, it was an opportunity. He struck as quickly as lightning, disabling Smokescreen with two quick jabs to his side and neck. As the con-mech collapsed Jazz, grabbed him and pressed him against a nearby wall, leaning into him. Passers-by would only see two intoxicated mechs being overly amorous.

"You need to rest, Smokey and you need to get whatever this is out," Jazz hissed into Smokescreen's audio.

If Smokescreen's limbs hadn't felt like they'd been leaded he would have slugged Jazz. Instead he settled for glaring at him and growling softly.

"I don't want or need your help, Jazz. Leave me alone. I don't want to talk about it." As he whispered his harsh tone became almost pleading. "... Jazz I don't wanna talk 'bout it ..."

"I know, mech. I know," Jazz replied softly. He pulled away from Smokescreen before slinging one arm over his shoulder and pulling close against his side. "Now c'mon. Let's get you inside."

Ignoring Smokescreen's growled protest, he half-lead half-carried his teammate to a nearby safe house.

* * *

Smokescreen fell back on the berth with a groan. He had already purged his tanks three times, bringing up far more energon than he had remembered drinking. His tanks growled and heaved again, and before he even had time to recover from the last bout, he was face-down in the bucket again.

"... primus offline me now ..."

Jazz looked at Smokescreen sympathetically, but made no move to help or soothe. Smokescreen wouldn't have appreciated the gesture, and there wasn't anything that Jazz could do to help anyways. So, he sat back and waited for the burgundy and blue mech to stop purging.

Finally Smokescreen sat back on the berth and rested against the wall. His optics were dim and his engines sounded a little strained, but the grinding had stopped. After a moment he leaned forward and rested his forehead against one hand before muttering something that sounded like a question.

"Whazzat, Smokes?" Jazz asked.

"It's all a con, isn't it?" Smokescreen said softly as he cradled his head in his hands. "It's all just one long, drawn out con. One right after the next."

Jazz nodded slightly. "Suppose that's one way t' look at it."

Smokescreen fell into silence again and Jazz didn't prompt. He could be patient and let the walls fall when they would.

The silence continued until Smokescreen sat up slightly, drew in his knees, and hugged them.

"Is the offer still on the table?"

"Which one?"

"Are you my friend or my boss, Jazz?"

The saboteur came and sat beside the con-mech. "I'm both. But right now I'm yer friend, Smokey."

Smokescreen nodded, and fell back into silence. After a time, he sat back up and rested his head against the wall, optics still offline, hands limp on his knees. He sighed then spoke so softly that Jazz had to increase his audio sensitivity to hear him.

"All of this is a con. Just like all the ones I used to run with- ... just like all the other ones. I've done them all and more. And I loved every second of them. Every con, every theft, every time I talked someone into giving me everything they had ... You have no idea what that rush was like ..."

Jazz moved to sit beside Smokescreen, close, but not touching.

"I know what kind o' rush th' job brings, Smokey. Ya pull one off an' ya feel like-"

"Like you can take on Primus himself," Smokescreen finished. "And it's ... it's fun." Smokescreen onlined his optics and smiled bitterly at Jazz. "It used to be so unbelievably fun. It didn't matter that people were getting hurt. After all, everyone knew they were being conned. Everyone knew what we were offering was too good to be true. And if they were so greedy as to ignore that-" He broke off with a shrug.

Jazz nodded. "I kin see that logic."

"But you don't agree with it." It was a statement not a question.

"I ain't you, Smokey. You an' me, we lived different lives, we made different decisions. I can't judge ya an' I ain't gonna."

Smokescreen made a noise that sounded like a derisive snort. "We all judge, Jazz. Basic psychology. We judge everyone every day. But you're doing a good job of pretending that you're not."

"Okay, so's that's what's got ya in a funk?"

Smokescreen laughed bitterly and looked away. "Funk. You make it sound like I'm just blue. Like I'm down in the dumps."

"Then what is it, Smokey?" Jazz placed a hand on Smokescreen's shoulder. "Come on, mech. Whaever this is, it's eatin' ya alive. Yer th' one who taught me we can't keep it all inside."

Smokescreen didn't reply but he also didn't pull away. Instead he leaned almost imperceptibly into the touch, silently and subtly seeking comfort.

"Come on, Smokey. I'm yer friend. Whatever it is you kin tell me."

"... it's not fun any more. It used to be that the fun of it, the rush , it counteracted The Rush. ... Do you have any idea what I mean?"

Jazz nodded. He knew from the beginning that Smokescreen had certain problems with addictions. But in the time that he's been with the Autobots, he'd only slid back into problem gambling a scant handful of times, and he never had since he joined Special Ops. Smokescreen had been a perfect Autobot. Perhaps too perfect.

"But since we caught th- since I joined Special Ops it's been like something's missing. It's not as fun as it used to be and I'm finding that ... I think I'm slipping, Jazz. I dunno ... maybe I'm just ..." He trailed off with a bitter sigh and leaned into Jazz. "Maybe I am just blue."

Jazz wrapped one arm around Smokescreen and pulled him close.

"Smokey we'll work this out, okay? I've known ya long enough t' know what's really goin' on here. No one'd fault ya fer grievin'. An' no one'd think less o' ya if a chose another path."

"There aren't a whole lot of options for a mech like me," Smokescreen muttered. "I know cons and I know mechs. If it isn't special ops, it's back on the front lines."

"I dunno what we're gonna do, but a transfer back t' the front lines ain't gonna happen. You'd be wasted there." Jazz tightened his arm around Smokescreen. "We both know yer far too valuable in th' background."

Smokescreen sighed and dimmed his optics. The high grade and the purging had left him physically drained. The following confession had wrung him out emotionally, and now it was all he could do to stay online.

Hearing the change in his engine, Jazz started to humm softly. "Get some recharge, Smokey. Trust me, it'll all look better once I've figured this out."

* * *

"Yo, Smokey. Cm'ere. I need a word wit'cha," Jazz said as he stuck his head out of his office.

Smokescreen looked up from his report. "Yeah, sure thing, boss."

He stood and sauntered into Jazz's office, dropping into one of the guest chairs and leaning back casually.

"What's up?"

Jazz leaned against the edge of the desk, crossed his arms, and looked down at the blue and burgundy mech. "Seems you've caught the attention o' the Brass, buddy."

"Okay," Smokescreen said with a shrug. It was hardly unusual for the higher ups to notice Special Ops and to offer a quiet word of congratulations.

"More specifically, Neuron's attention," Jazz continued, as if Smokescreen had never spoken. "Seems she's real impressed wit' ya."

Smokescreen sat up at that bit of news. It was usual for the head of Psychological Operations to take notice of Special Ops. And more importantly, Smokescreen had never spoken with her. In fact, he'd never even formally met her. Of course he knew of her. Everyone did. Former noble-mech turned Autobot well before the Towers fell, and the rumours going around the ranks were that she had far greater aspirations than being a Director.

"Neuron?" Smokescreen finally replied. "How've I gotten her notice?"

"Truth is, I spoke with her aboucha, Smokey. I think you'd do well under her command, and after we spoke, she agrees wit' me."

Smokescreen shook his head and blinked. "Okay, wait, hold on there, Jazz. This is starting to sound like a transfer."

"That's 'cause it is," Jazz replied with a nod. "Look, Special Ops is a three mech unit, an' the new kid's fittin' in real well."

"You're replacing me with Bumblebee?!" Outrage coloured Smokescreen's tone and he stood, confronting Jazz. "Why? Because of what I told you? That was in confidence, Jazz! How dare you lie to me like that!"

"It's not about that. Yer skills are need somewhere else, Smokey. It's as simple as that."

"So that's it? You just transfer me out? After everything? You just go and betray me like that." Smokescreen glared at Jazz for a moment before turning away angrily. "Fine, so it's gonna be like that. When's this transfer take effect?" he demanded sullenly.

"It's immediate." Jazz held out a data pad. "All ya need's on this."

Smokescreen took the pad, glanced at it, then stalked to the door. "It's not all I need, but it's obviously all I'm getting. So much for being my friend."

With that he stormed out of the room, never looking back at Jazz, and never noticing as Mirage appeared in a dark corner.

"I'll admit, I never liked the mech, but was that really appropriate?" Mirage asked.

"He's dying here, Raj. We all know it; he's just too damned stubborn to admit that he's not Special Ops material. Maybe what we do is too close to what he and the Com-"

"We are nothing like them," Mirage snapped, cutting Jazz off. "We do what has to be done, and if he's too weak to deal with it, then we're better off without him."

"It's not a question of him bein' weak, Raj. You know that he ain't," Jazz replied. "It's just ... look, we all got our places an' his ain't here. ... Smokey's a good mech, but he's got way too much Decepticon in 'im t' make in in Special Ops."

Mirage snorted derisively before heading to the door. "Yeah, too much 'Con in him is right on the mark, Jazz." With that he left the room, leaving Jazz to his paperwork.


End file.
